


Coda

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a coda to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/198061">Ashes, Rubble, and the Debris You Left Behind</a>. Time has passed and Sherlock reflects as John sleeps beside him. Knowledge of <em>Ashes, Rubble, and the Debris You Left Behind</em> is necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

He wakes just before dawn and remembers a time when he used to sleep all day. John has rolled away from him in the night and is lying on his side, facing him – still asleep.

In sleep, John's jaw is relaxed, mouth open, drool moistening the pillow beneath his cheek.

In sleep, John's face is peaceful, the scars from flame the only blemishes.

In sleep, John's hands are reaching towards Sherlock, battered, twisted and broken, reaching out to him in a silent rebuke.

He examines John's hands – the short nails, free of dirt, the scars where fingers ought to be. He presses his lips to the remains of the surgeon's hands, the hands that had killed in his defense, the hands that the night before had held him, crumpled and undone.

 _The room smelled of sweat and sex and the white roses in the garden, their heavy scent drifting in from the open window. Sarah had planted them the first time she and Lestrade had come to visit._

 _"What is between us will always be there," John said, sitting upright on the bed. Stiff. At attention._

 _"Obviously." Sherlock sought shelter in flippancy. He turned his back to John, examining the clutter on the chest of drawers – coins, keys, scraps of receipts, the debris of everyday living. John needs to buy stamps._

 _"And there will be good days and bad ones."_

 _"Of course."_

 _"But I can't not…"_

 _"I know."_

 _"What you did. What we did…"_

 _"I disappointed you." Sherlock turned, unashamed of his nakedness. He is scarred as much as John is, perhaps more, perhaps less, in some ways. Fitting that this conversation should be held now, each exposed unflinchingly to the other._

 _"Good deduction, that." John's lips twisted into a brief smile. "But what you did…"_

 _Sherlock stepped toward him, sank to his knees. The bed was low enough for him to look John in the eye. "What you offered to do… that thing…"_

 _"Sherlock, I'm not good at this," John said._

 _"Neither am I."_

That they should have taken each other apart first is not lost on Sherlock as he lies, watching the sun break through the trees and listening to the birds begin their post-dawn riot. The breeze stirs the curtains, ghosting over them, bringing in again the heavy scent of the white roses that Sarah planted.

 _The white roses Sarah planted_ refuses to leave Sherlock's mind – a refrain echoing, the memory of broken lives and broken hearts – the detritus of other people's existences.

John stirs to wakefulness.

"Good morning," he says, caution flaring in his eyes.

What looms between them – the phantoms in the room, the past, the present, the future – fade as Sherlock watches John's eyes soften, as he reaches out and presses his crumpled hand to Sherlock's face. He turns, kissing the fingers and palm, catching the hand in his – each caress a greeting, a welcome, a plea for forgiveness.

Every morning they do this – only this morning, there was also the night before.

A smile.

"Hello, John."

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Special thanks to bluestocking79 and pyjamapants for keeping me from making too many mistakes. I never intended to write this, but sometimes…


End file.
